Two Minutes and Twelve Seconds
by The Next Exit
Summary: ... is how long it takes Kyle to die. / K2, Style, eventual hinted Stenny.
1. Explanations

**A.N./ I have my hopes up for this one. I'm starting with a clean slate, beginning with this little gem. This would by absolutely NOTHING without Former, who helped with every detail of the plot, every single time I sat for hours and stared at the screen. This is **_**our**_** story. **

…**Thank you for everything. (:**

My name is Kenny McCormick, and I have fucked up beyond repair. Two months ago, I realized I was in love with a guy who had always been there for me, a friend I had grown up with, someone who never let me down no matter _what _shit I put him through. Someone who was also happily in love with someone else. … And someone who, through it all, I ended up killing.

Kyle Broflovski.

And so, here I was. Sitting in a blinding, dreary hospital waiting room filled to the brim with depression. Throughout all the times I've ended up in here, this definitely wins the prize for the worst hospital experience of my life. And I wasn't even here for my own issues. I was in such a state of shock that I couldn't wrap my mind around the events that had recently happened. Stan was even more so, lying on the cold linoleum, his body shaking. Ever since the accident, he hasn't spoken, looked, or even acknowledged my existence. I can't blame him, though. I could hardly stand _myself._

I'm pretty sure some explaining is necessary in this situation. Yeah, Kyle's death is entirely my fault, but not at all in the way you're assuming. I didn't physically _hurt_ the guy, Hell, I wasn't even there when he died. Yet, the guilt and the agony would be just as extreme if I actually had put a knife to his throat.

I'm assuming I should start from the beginning, when I began to get deeper and deeper in shit, so I'll at least be _able_ to back up my side of this situation. Which _was_ two months ago. November. The month I fell in love with him.

* * *

It began on a Friday night. And Friday nights were what I lived for_. _The Cure was right, because I am _in love_ with Fridays.

The three of us were over at Stan's place, reuniting for our weekly video game session. I was sprawled across the floor, Xbox controller gripped tightly in my sweaty palms. Scattered around me were about five cans of Monster energy drinks, which I had relentlessly downed from the six-pack in Stan's pantry. My veins were _buzzing_. It was times like this where I could relate to Tweek's twitching and spasms, because caffeine gets you _wired_.

Behind me were Stan and Kyle, lounging against each other on the couch. Kyle would occasionally let out a giggle, followed by a playful chuckle from Stan. They weren't especially involved in the game, so I was usually playing on my own.

Did I mention they were dating?

Well, yeah, they'd been together for a week or so now, and had been pretty open about it to me. I was completely fine with them being gay and all (I was gay myself), but they had been overdoing the lovey-doveyness lately. It seemed like they had invited me over to watch their little love fest.

Or it might have been the jealously talking. Not that I _was _jealous or anything, I mean, they were my friends. It's not like I was constantly resisting the urge to pounce on them. …I wasn't.

Right now I was plowing through Street Fighter on arcade mode, though Blanka was kicking my ass at the moment. Street Fighter was one of the few games that could _really _piss me off. Everything about it aggravated me, yet it was also one of the few games that could suck me in. Once you got all the button-combos down, you were the _boss_.

"Stan, not…" Kyle whispered, with a harsh tone. They had been conversing behind me for a while, but the ambience blasting from Street Fighter pretty much drowned them out. I was in my own little world.

I tilted my head to the left, catching a glimpse of bare flesh through my peripheral vision. I jerked my head fully behind me, to a shirtless Kyle on the lap of a very clearly aroused Stan. _Shirtless_ Kyle. Oh, my god. Times like this made me certain of my sexual orientation. I was gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, GAY.

"K-Kenny?" he whimpered, noticing the fact that I was practically drooling over him. He inched closer against Stan, who put his hands around Kyle's waist.

"Oh, oh. …What?" I blurted, playing dumb. My face was red. _Shit._

"You okay?"

"Totally. Sorry, I spaced out. I do that. A lot. You know, it's late. The Monster's wearing off," I rambled, nervous as Hell. I shook my head and shut myself up, turning to a screen that read "GAME OVER" in flashing letters. I groaned.

"_Fuck!" _I hurled the controller at the floor.

"Dude, Kenny. Careful please," Stan warned, protective about his precious Xbox. I would be too, though the only video game system I had ever owned was a PSP, and God knows where that was.

…Literally.

"Sorry, man. I was so close to beating arcade mode," I sighed, picking up the controller and making sure it hadn't been actually damaged. And, just my luck, it wasn't. There would've been Hell to pay.

"It's fine. Watch it, though," he warned again, his tone lighter.

I nodded, no longer in the mood to restart arcade mode from the beginning. I'd have to beat Ryu again, and I don't think I could take listening to a series of "hadouken"s right now.

I yawned, arching my back like a cat. The caffeine was gradually fading. I could feel it.

"Uhm," I began, turning around again. Kyle and Stan had locked lips, intertwined with each other. Kyle jumped, pulling away from Stan and looking at me. "Mind if I spend the night?"

"Oh," replied Stan, glancing at the digital clock on the cablebox which read 2:16AM. "No problem. Mind if you take the guest room?"

Stan had a guest room? Since when?

"Yeah, I can deal."

"Alright, it's this way," he began, leaning towards Kyle's ear. "Be right back, hon."

Stan got off of the couch, stretching his arms as he led me upstairs. I stood up, my vision getting dizzy and sparkly. Blood sugar. I shook my head frantically, following behind him.

He strolled further down the hall, approaching a door near the end of it. I'd crashed at Stan's place for _years_ now and he'd never mentioned this so-called guest room. I guess he just wanted to be alone with Kyle tonight. God, why did I even _come_? They clearly don't want me here.

"Here you go," he announced, pushing open the door to the room and flicking the light switch. It was simple, but a helluva lot better than the room I slept in back home. It smelled new, too. Like new paint. I _adored_ the smell of paint, most likely because I spent a great deal of my childhood getting high off of it. Good times.

"Oh. Thanks, man," I smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"No problem. If you need anything, I'll be downstairs with Kyle," he replied, smirking at the last sentence. No shit. He'd be more than _downstairs_ with Kyle.

"Oookay," I exhaled heavily, flopping on top of the bed. He closed the door lightly, and I heard his footsteps down the hall. Down the stairs. And into the living room below me.

And Kyle's anxious squeals.

"Have fun," I mumbled, which was muffled into the bed sheets. It was gonna be a _long _night.


	2. Breakfast!

I awoke to the smell of bacon. Oh my god, yes. My mouth watered at the thought of breakfast, especially sizzling, savory bacon. I sat up abruptly in bed, rubbing my drooping eyes. My stomach growled, pleading for food.

"Okay, okay…" I groaned, not bothering to argue with my stomach. If it wanted food, it _wanted food_. And I wasn't about to come in the way of that.

I slid out of the twin-size bed in Stan's guest room, slowly blinking. I cracked most of my knuckles, standing up with hesitance. I hated mornings with a passion. More so the process of waking up.

On my way to the door, I examined myself in the mirror. Messy blonde hair. Stained orange hoodie. Bloodshot, cyanide blue eyes.

I shrugged. Same old, same old.

As I proceeded down the hall, the smell and sound of sizzling bacon intensified.I needed it right now. And fast.

I sped down the stairs, tripping over the last one and steadying myself when I hit the floor. I went to the left. The kitchen.

There was Kyle, sliding a skillet across the stove. What was he, a housewife now? The bacon smell was overwhelming. So much deliciousness.

"Kyle?" I called, my mouth watering at both Kyle and the bacon. I couldn't tell which one was more irresistible.

He turned his head to me with a small wave. "Kenny. Hey," he greeted.

"H-hi. You, uhm. Making bacon there?" I blurted, pausing between every word. It was uncanny how nervous I got around this guy recently. I used to be so comfortable around his presence. Now I had the speech efficiency of Jimmy, that kid from elementary school.

"Yeah, I am. You want some?" he asked, lowering the heat on the stovetop.

"Hell yeah," I cheered. No, Kyle, I don't want any of your mouthwatering, delectable bacon, and that's exactly why I came here to stare at you while you made it.

He giggled. Dear god, it should be illegal to be so fucking adorable. "Okay, it'll be a just minute or two."

"N-no problem, man," I grinned, nodding casually. I stood, leaning against the kitchen counter, and gazed at Kyle as he fried strips of bacon. It was heaven. And I had _been_ to heaven. If someone were to ask me what my definition of "heaven" was, it would be this. Kyle Broflovski in the kitchen, cooking bacon for me.

Did I mention he was wearing tight, skinny jeans? And they were _tight_. Like, it would be impossible to shove a hand down them, because you probably wouldn't be able to slide one in without breaking a seam or something. And that would be a shame.

He looked up from the stove, and raised an eyebrow at me. "Uhm. Kenny?" he called out, rubbing his neck uncomfortably.

I mumbled something inaudible, standing there with a huge fucking grin on my face. Keep cooking, keep…

"_Kenny._ Dude," he continued, noticeably feeling violated.

_Shit_.

"Uh. Uhhm. Sorry. I'm sorry. I, uh. I can't really…" I went on, mentally kicking myself with every word. Not just kicking. Beating myself _up._ I'm such a pervert, man.

He smirked. He could tell, that sly fox.

"W-where's Stan?" I brought up, hoping to divert from the fact that I had been staring at his tight ass for the past five minutes.

He shrugged. "Crashed on the couch, I think. We had a…" Kyle paused, biting his lip. "long night."

And for some reason, I burst into a fit of laughter. It was out of _nowhere. _And I _couldn't stop_. I just kept laughing, my sides hurting from laughing so hard. I gripped my mouth, breathing slowly to control myself. Kyle stood there and watched, probably thinking I'd smoked a ton of weed. Or thought I was just being an asshole. Which, I was.

Nice going, Kenny. Nice going.

"_Fuck. _Dude, I'm sorry. I've been. Not, uhm, myself. Lately," I prattled, stepping away.

"…Yeah," he added, eyebrow raised again. I had to get away from him before I freaked him out any more.

I continued to slow my breaths, turning and making my way to the living room. I needed to talk to someone. Someone who wasn't Kyle. Maybe it wasn't Kyle, maybe it was me. I could've become extremely socially awkward in the past few days.

It was a possibility, at least.

I made it to the living room, and sure enough, there was Stan sprawled across the couch. Poor thing, ramming Kyle's ass must be _so_ tiring.

… I needed to stop with this whole jealousy thing.

I walked to the end of the couch that Stan _wasn't _lying on top of, avoiding my crushed Monster cans randomly placed around the room. I could hardly remember how they ended up everywhere. I mean, I was stationed in one little area, fixated on video games, yet my energy drink cans were _everywhere_. Another mystery in the life of Kenny McCormick.

I let out a long, drawn-out sigh, staring at the ceiling and listening to Stan's soft snoring. He didn't really snore, but he wasn't silent either. It was right smack in the middle.

I was pretty sure I snored. I _hated _people who snore in their sleep. It would be unbearable sleeping next to them.

Which would include me, if I do snore. Awesome.

Stan moaned a little bit, rolling over in his sleep. "Ky… Don't…" he mumbled, clenching his teeth.

How endearing, he was dreaming about Kyle. I can't blame him, I dreamt about Kyle every other night.

What did Kyle even see in Stan? I totally support them and their happiness in every way, but why were they so tight? Don't get me wrong, Stan is a good-looking guy, but personality-wise, I have no clue why Kyle is so head-over-heels for him.

I'll admit, Stan _does _know how to love someone. I've seen him with Kyle. He's so sincere with everything he does and says to him, and Kyle eats that shit up.

Either way. I just wish I could be more like Stan when it comes to relationships. Because I'm pretty sure I blew all of my possible future chances with Kyle after that little incident in the kitchen. Speaking of the kitchen, where was my bacon? I got back on my feet, and poked my head through the kitchen doorway.

Kyle was piling the strips of bacon onto ceramic plates, dividing the bacon he cooked equally. Finally. My hunger meter was at it's maximum highest, and I felt like I were to explode if I wasn't fed at this second. Like, _at this _second. I slid into the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible. I wasn't sure if Kyle was mad at me or just disturbed.

I was right behind him, and about to ask him if he wanted help or anything, when…

My stomach growls.

And scares the shit out of him.

"Jesus, Kenny…" he sighs, a hand on his forehead. "Can you stop sneaking around or at least tell me when you're _in the room_?"

"S-so, you want me to announce whenever I enter?" I chuckled. …And then realized I wasn't as funny as I thought I was.

"Uhm, no, but just don't go all ninja sneak attack on me, okay? If you want bacon, you tell me," he mutters, catching his breath. Poor thing.

"I-I'm sorry. But, um. Yeah," I start, eyeing the plates of bacon. "Bacon?"

"Yeah. Sure," he sighs, handing me a plate.

I take it from him quickly, making sure not to piss him off any further. Why can't I keep my mouth shut? Or, at least, stay out of things?

"T-thanks. Thank you," I mutter, returning to the living room. The bacon is in my hands. And, holy shit, it looks and smells amazing.

I run to the coffee table as fast as I can without breaking something, and set the plate down on the surface. I take a strip off the plate and bite into its crunchy, bacony goodness.

And man, it was worth the wait.

I moan with pleasure and take another bite, inhaling deep and savoring it. Kyle knows how to fry his bacon. He _knows._

Kyle comes out of the kitchen with two plates of bacon, and places them both on the table beside me. Stan is missing out on this. Kyle heads to the couch, and kisses Stan lightly on the cheek.

"Stan…" he coos, rubbing his arm.

Stan moans, slowly waking up. "Good morning, beautiful," he grins.

Kyle returns the smile, nuzzling Stan's shoulder. How cute. Everything they did was like some kind of scene from a romance movie. Nuzzle, hug, kiss, blah blah blah. Oh, and you can't forget the constant "I love you"s.

"I love you," Stan coos, pulling Kyle against him. There it was. They needed some more original lines. Or need to stop being so predictable.

I sighed, eating more bacon. At least I still had my darling bacon. It'd never leave me like a human being would.

…Er, until I ate all of it.

Shit. I stared at the two completely full plates of bacon beside me. I mean, they wouldn't notice if I took _one_. Especially considering the fact that, at the moment, they were locked at the lips again. And me taking one strip of bacon wasn't going to change that.

I speedily took one strip off of a plate, breaking it in half and shoving both pieces in my mouth. That's how it's done.

And I didn't even interrupt their love session.

Of course, I would have to, considering I should stop mooching off of them and scaring the bejeebus out of Kyle. I got out of my chair, and stood in front of them as they continued to make out.

"Yeah, uhm, I'm gonna get going," I announced, and they pulled away, finally noticing my presence.

"Oh. Oh, okay," Stan replies, scooting a bit away from Kyle.

"Thanks for letting me crash here," I smile, waving nonchalantly.

"Anytime, man. Take care," he responds, nodding.

I head towards Stan's front door, feeling like a worthless piece of shit. But, don't I always. I fling it open with anxiety, just wanting to get back home and sleep my life away. I mean, not like _death_, just taking a huge-ass nap.

I sat in my car for what had to be fifteen minutes. My key was in the ignition, but I hadn't twisted it just yet. I spaced. I just _spaced._ I stared through the windshield, mindlessly.

I figured it was from lack of sleep. What time was it? The clock in my old, beaten car read 8:35AM. Eh, that was six hours of sleep. That's enough to keep me going.

My god, I just wasn't myself today.


	3. Through the Window

**A.N./ This is, and will be, the shortest chapter in this entire fanfiction.  
So, no worries. The next one will be much longer. Hopefully.**

Yeah, that's cool, parents. Lock me out of my own fucking house.

I slammed the door with my hand, eventually ending up kneeing and kicking it. "_Open the goddamn door!_" I wailed.

Leave it to me to forget my keys. Classic Kenny moment right here, folks. And considering what a piece of shit door we _have_, the fact that I couldn't break the thing down to the ground was also pretty humiliating. I fiddled with the rusty doorknob a bit, pulling it frantically. Where the hell were they? Was this some kind of sick joke? Because it isn't fucking funny.

"MOM. DAD. KEVIN. _ANYBODY_?" I screamed, slamming against the door with all of the weight in my body. Which wasn't very much, considering I starve to death nearly every night. Except at Stan's place, clearly.

I finally gave up, and leaned, arms crossed, against the door. Life kept throwing the punches, but I'll get through. Not the first time I've been locked out of this house. Actually, I'm pretty certain it was the fifth time that this has happened.

It was 9AM on a Saturday, where would they all be? I mean, at least one of them would be at home. Or have been kind enough to remember that their son was gone overnight and would be _returning_ the next day.

Or they might just not give a rat's ass.

Ah, my family made me feel so loved and appreciated. I guess it was better than the times they had actually _kicked me out_. I shit you not. I slept outside those nights, although it was usually on a side of our porch they didn't bother to look for me on.

I gotta admit, though, sleeping outside is much more comforting than sleeping in my house, trying to tune out my parents' constant arguing and screaming. In the summer, especially. Something about sleeping around fireflies introduced an entirely new degree of relaxation.

But, it was almost winter, and cold as fuck overnight. So, I'd most likely rather put up with my parents' bickering than become a human popsicle. But it looked as if I'd be here until my parents finally came home, or opened the damn door if they were just screwing with me. I'm pretty sure they _know_ not to get me enraged, though.

I sat on the porch, keeping a beat with my hands against the decaying wood. Why wouldn't they tell me they were going to be gone? Maybe they did and I ignored them? Nah. Something probably came up.

Though I couldn't recall the last time they were out of the house for something other than church. And my funerals. It made me shudder at the thought of all of my past funerals, you'd the service would get tired of me eventually.

I scoffed, standing up again to look for an open window or something of the sort. It's about time I learned how to break in to my _own_ house. I knew for a fact that the window in my room was screen-less, and the glass was always slid half-down (or half-up, for you optimists), which I probably could manage to squeeze through.

I approached my room window on the right of the house, and sure enough, it was open. Slightly. Just enough for me to squeeze through. I took in deep breaths, rolling my shoulders back to prepare. I got this. I got this.

I tilted my head to the side, gripping the sides of the windowsill to stable myself. I began to slide it through the opening with care, my head getting squeezed in the slightest. My eyes and nose were through, and I could smell the familiar scent of my musty, old bedroom. Almost there.

I eventually pushed my head through, tilting it upwards once more. Now for the shoulders. I bent them back as far as possible, pushing off of the porch with my feet. I slid my torso through, and got wedged at my hips.

_Shit_.

My head was now touching my tainted carpet, and I pushed against my room's wall to fit my hips and thighs through. I bent my knees, my legs sliding through the window and into my room. Fuck yeah.

I was inside, thank god, but I did get a shitload of splinters on my face. And hands. But I was _inside the house_.

They didn't call me "Krazy Kenny" for nothing.

I pulled myself off of the floor, groaning. Now I wish that I had stayed at Stan's place just a bit longer. I could've gone back to sleep, slept through the day, avoided awkward moments with Kyle, come back here at night and not end up hurting myself in some way. But there were too many things in my life I regret doing already, most of which were a lot more serious than staring a guy's ass for a few minutes. Hell, I do that daily already.

Besides, I could catch up on my lack of sleep right now anyhow. I had a bed. There was a roof over my head. I didn't have to mooch off of Stan and Kyle.

But it _would_ be nice.

I flopped on the mattress that was lying on my floor, which wasn't any softer than _actually _lying on the floor. It'll do, man, it'll do. I needed to stop being so ungrateful. And jealous. And relentless. And too much other shit to count right now.

I gazed up at my cracked ceiling, trying to find shapes of objects within the cracks. There was one that totally looked like a dick. Like, it was perfect.

Or maybe that was just me.

I should sleep. I need to sleep. Everything felt so unreal, like how you feel in a dream. Or when you die, but no one else probably could relate with that. Even people who get shocked back to life with defibrillators couldn't, because they're only dead for a few minutes. I have been dead for _months _at a time and I'm still here today. In fact, I haven't died since I was fifteen, and that was… two years ago? Yeah, I haven't been dead for _two _years.

That's a personal record. If I kept this up, I could probably live the rest of my life without dying. …Wait.

I mean, until I die for good.

…Would I still come back to life _then_? Like, when I was actually _meant_ to die? That was a mindfucking thought.

Yeah, I definitely needed to sleep now. Whenever I end up thinking about life and death, my brain aches like a son of a bitch. I barely understand any of it.

I just needed to sleep, that's all.


	4. Subtle

It was two weeks later, around the time we had an extended weekend break for the Thanksgiving holiday. And, surprise surprise, I was standing awkwardly in front of a door. _Again_.

But this time, it wasn't my own, but Kyle's. I was in front of Kyle's door. And I honestly had no clue as to why I was even here. I mean, he was dating Stan. He was probably _with_ Stan inside anyhow, so cross getting him to cheat off of the list. I guess I could ask him for advice. Like, make up some guy who I could claim, theoretically, I was gay for, what he would do. Or if he was that guy, how he would want me to tell him.

I'm pretty sure they've done that in like every movie involving that shit, though. But maybe Kyle wouldn't notice. Maybe. I just needed to get my act together.

I'd been pretty good about playing it cool around him lately, I stuttered a helluva lot less and did less sweating and blushing on my part too. Which was pretty much the only thing I've achieved this month. Go, me!

I took in a few deep breaths, clenching my fists to crack my knuckles. Knuckle cracking was one of the few ways I could calm myself, which was convenient because it was always possible. Except the few minutes right after you crack them and they're uncrackable. Uncrackable. Was that a word?

Inhale. Exhale. _Knock-knock-knock._

Someone was coming to the door, I could hear their footsteps. …What if it wasn't Kyle? What if it was _Sheila_? Shit. What would I say then?

The handle turned, and sure enough, I was looking into Kyle's green eyes. Thank god for _that_. I don't think I could deal with his mom right now.

"Kenny? What's up?" he asked, a bit concerned.

"Oh, hey. Uhm, I'm having some issues. I just need some advice. And I thought it would be best to ask you, because I'm pretty sure you have experience with this shit," I began, hoping he'd buy it.

"No problem, man. Come inside, it's freezing out here," he answered. Kyle always knew how to make my day.

I stepped inside, the temperature of Kyle's house warming me instantly. Kyle's house also smelled like he did, it was a distinct smell that made me want to ambush and cuddle something. Which was also what Kyle's presence impelled me to do.

Kyle perched at the end of his couch, crossing his legs. "So, what's wrong, Kenny?"

I sat a decent distance away from him on the floor, mainly to control myself. How would I word this without blowing my cover? I couldn't be straight-up with him without being like "hey, Kyle, I like a guy who has a boyfriend and can't escape it", and I don't want to make up a similar situation because I need to know how _he_ would approach this. I suppose I could be subtle about it.

Subtle. I need to be subtle.

"…Kenny?" he asked again, which broke my train of thought.

"Right. Yeah," I began, clearing my throat. Here we go, Kenny, here we go.

"It involves, er, love. And you know, you're like, dating someone, so I thought you'd know a lot about issues like this," I rambled, grabbing for excuses.

"Aw, sure, man. Shoot," he responded, his tone reassuring.

"Um, yeah. So, I… I'm kinda in love with this person. It's, um, a guy. I'm gay. Er, bi, actually, but anyway," I continued, trailing off into nervous laughter. _Don't blow this, Kenny._

Kyle nodded, resting his chin on his hand.

"I'm… pretty positive this person doesn't like me in return. They, um, like you do, they have a boyfriend. Already. And I really don't want to come between them, you know? I don't want to be that person. But everyday I imagine myself with this person every single fucking day. It _kills _me, man. I've never obsessed over someone so much in my lifetime, and I've had my share of partners and crushes. You have _no _idea how much I think about them. Maybe you can relate, with Stan, you know. But, even then, you _have _him. I don't have this person, nor do I want to tear these two people apart. I can't get enough of them. And everything fucking _reminds _me of them. My mind taunts me, as if it's constantly trying to make me get this person. Every day. 'Don't you want him? Go, then, ruin their life because of your lust for him.' I just, I can't even…"

I exhaled, looking up at Kyle. He looked so engaged in what I had just said, so attentive. Probably because I've, A) never spilled everything to him like that, and B), never said anything for that long a period of time before, so he probably assumed I was incapable of more than four sentences. I swallowed, hoping I had kept the fact that this "person" was him concealed. Knowing him, though, I was more than certain he knew. And boy, wouldn't that fuck all of this up?

"Um. Who… is it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

God dammit, Kyle. If my conscience wasn't holding back my undying lust for him, I would have screamed at the top of my lungs, "IT'S YOU! IT'S YOU, KYLE MOTHERFUCKING BROFLOVSKI!". But, no. I wasn't going to ruin the spark of friendship I had with him with my freaky obsession with him.

So, what the hell would I say?

"Oh. Oh, _who_ is it?" I started, laughing like a retard. Think, Kenny, think. I couldn't play the "you don't know them" card, because everyone in South Park _knew _everyone in South Park. Small town. Not many people.

"Yeah, who?" he repeated, probably waiting to hear his name.

Who else was gay and had a boyfriend who went to our high school? There was, um, Kyle and Stan…

And no one else. Fuck.

"Oh, I, um, I thought you knew. You know. It's that person I kept…" I trailed off, as it was now obvious I was hiding under excuses. "Does it really matter?"

"I… guess not. But, what did you need advice on, exactly?" he continued, smirking slightly. He knew. I could fucking tell.

"Uhhm. I, um. What would you do in this situation? Like, if you were t- no no, if you were me. What would _you _do?" I asked, catching myself for the third time.

"I'd tell them to get it off my chest. If it's clear they have no interest, no harm would be done, and that way you know they know," he explained. Yeah, easy for you to say, Kyle.

"Right. But, I don't want things to get awkward between me and this guy. He's um, he's a nice guy. I don't want to lose our buddy status."

"Well, it sounds like you'll lose it _eventually._ Trust me, you'll feel much more at ease. You won't be constantly obsessing over… this guy," he went on.

"Ky-" I started, then stopping it with a fake fit of violent coughing. It would be so much fucking easier if he knew. …And harder.

"…What?" he asked, eyebrows raised again.

"No. No, no, no. Nothing at all. Allergies and stuff," I prattled, waving my hands around. God, I regret coming here.

"Kenny. You don't have to hide shit from me. It's not like I'll tell anyone," he consoled.

"N-no. I can't. You don't get it," I cried, frustrated as hell.

"I _totally_ get where you're coming from. I mean, who separated Stan and Wendy the second time?" he reassured, gesturing to himself. I guess he had a point there. But, that only made it worse, thinking about all the pain Stan went through then. I'd be doing that to _Kyle_.

"Yeah, but. Stan was still hurt, although he's happy now. I can't hurt this person, even if it was temporary."

"Aw, that's sweet, Kenny," he smiled. I nodded slowly, looking down at the carpet.

"Still, you should tell him. Like, if I was in that guy's shoes, my opinion of you definitely wouldn't lower. In fact, I'd probably appreciate that you told me despite the fact I was with someone," he continued. _If_ he was that guy.

"O-oh really?" I asked, biting my lip. I still couldn't do it.

"Yeah. You should tell him, man," he reassured, smirking again.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm, um. I'm gonna go tell him, then," I rubbed my neck, pointing to the door with my other hand. Smooth.

"Good luck, dude. Tell me how it goes," he replied, standing up from the couch.

"I will. I'll do that," I coughed, stumbling to the door. I pushed it open, waving frantically, and slammed it behind me. It was starting to snow again, and the wind chill was significantly worse than it was fifteen minutes ago. I groaned, collapsing on my knees with frustration once I reached the sidewalk. Why did I get myself into this? I didn't know what to do anymore, I didn't know what side to choose.

I could tell Kyle, damage our friendship (and probably Stan's), and probably not hang around him nearly as much, or I could not tell him, and cope with the days of mental torture until this fades. And it would fade. It was probably just a phase; I'd get over this.

I'd get over this.


	5. Two Weeks

It took me more than a few minutes to realize I'd been sitting in bed for almost two weeks, once I'd calmed myself. Two weeks. Fourteen days. On a mattress.

I _did_ recall hearing repetitive knocks on my window and door, the shrill whining of my mother for me to "get my god damn act together", and blocking the doorknob with a chair. So I suppose it'd make sense. This also meant I'd ditched school for a two weeks, although considering my untimely deaths they'd probably gotten used to it by now.

Every inch of my body ached. Except maybe my face. Disregarding my eyes, which felt swollen as hell and caked over with that gunk that forms in the corners of them. I rubbed them with intensity, blurring my vision before I blinked it away. My teeth ached, too, obviously. I was pretty used to them feeling like they were constantly dissolving my gums at this point.

I rummaged through my pockets, feeling for my cell phone. It was my prized possession, I'd begged on my knees for one a few years ago knowing in the back of my mind that it was a long shot. And they _actually_ managed to afford one, after saving up on cash for three years. In anyone else's eyes, they'd probably see it as the shittiest cell phone known to man; but in mine, it was glorious.

I found it in my back pocket, pulling it out anxiously. I flipped it open, the dim, scratched (yet gorgeous) screen reading "6 New Messages! 28 Missed Calls!". …Jesus Christ. Messages? Missed calls? From _who?_ There were only three people on planet Earth who knew I even owned a cell phone, besides my own parents.

… Kyle.

I hit the middle button, and it brought up my message inbox. And, look at that, all six _were_ from Kyle. At least _someone_ cared about me.I began with the earliest one I had gotten, biting my lip.

'4:13PM 12/7 _Kenny, you alright? You didn't show up for the past week, today, or yesterday, is it because of _that guy_?'_

Delete.

'3:49PM 12/8 _Okay, what is going on? You… you aren't dead, right?'_

Delete.

'7:36PM 12/9 _I'm worried about you. I'm coming over, I can't take it.'_

He came over? Fuck! Delete.

'12:55AM 12/10 _Your mom said you locked yourself in your room since you came home last Saturday. I'm not even sure if your phone is with you, but answer me please. Is it me?'_

Aw. Delete.

'3:32PM 12/10 _I've given up on trying to call you, your phone probably isn't with you. Whatever you're doing, don't get out of hand, please.'_

Delete.

'9:18PM 12/11 _Look, even if this won't get to you. I already told you that you can be completely open and honest with me, and if you're hiding because you're worried about telling me about your issue, you shouldn't be. I've known you for over twelve years, and this is a pretty minor problem. That is, if that is the reason you're secluding yourself.'_

Delete. Empty inbox.

Did he _really _care that much? I couldn't even remember why I pulled this stunt, but if it was originally for Kyle's attention, I sure as hell got it. I'm pretty certain it was out of depression, though, because I usually slept my problems away when I didn't have anywhere to go. And it worked slightly, considering I wasn't nearly half as miserable as I was the last time I could remember being awake.

Yet, after reading the storm of messages Kyle had bombed me with, my lust for him was higher than ever. I had to talk to him just to get him to stop worrying about me. I had to hear his voice.

According to my phone, it was 11:42PM. For Saturday night, that wasn't really late at _all_. I dialed his number, laying on my back again in bed. The dial tone rang through my ears, beeping twice before he picked up.

"…_Stan, _shh_," _he whispered harshly before speaking, which meant that Stan was with him. …To add to the already awkward atmosphere of this. "Hello?"

"K-kyle. It's, um, Kenny," I croaked, losing my voice. My throat was throbbing with pain for having not been used for weeks.

"_KENNY! KENNY, _HOLY_ SHIT!"_ he wailed, and I couldn't tell if he was overjoyed or filled with rage. I was hoping for overjoyed.

"…Hi," I mumbled, clearing my throat.

"What the _fuck_ has been going on? I thought for sure you'd, God knows what, killed yourself or something. Butyou're_ alive_! You're fucking _alive_!" he panicked, breathing heavily out of shock. I guess after not dying for a year or so, my death _would_ seem a bit more extreme.

"I don't. I don't, uh, really know. I don't really know what happened to me, but I do know I locked myself in my room for a week. Right after I came home from your house," I went on, piecing things together aloud.

"Yeah, no shit," he muttered, sighing. I could just picture them now; Kyle in a facepalm with the phone pressed against his ear, Stan staring at him with concern and considering whether or not to do something.

It was silent for a minute or so, and I could just barely overhear Kyle and Stan conversing with each other. Followed by some clicks and shuffles.

"Kenny, hey," Stan began. "Why don't you stop by? We're at Kyle's place, and, um…" he went quiet for a minute, accompanied with more shuffling.

"…Kyle isn't taking this well," he whispered.

"Oh, oh. Sure, man, I'll be there…" I agreed, trailing off as I thought about my parents. My _parents._ I'd have no chance of leaving the house so long as they were here, my mom would have to release her rage on me, which had been building up for the past two weeks. Two weeks worth of rage to pay for. Fantastic.

"Thanks," he replied, low, and hung up directly afterward.

I pelted the phone at the end of the bed, letting out a groan. Time to sneak out of my window, once again. At least I'd gotten the hang of it by now.

I rubbed my legs, which were numb and asleep at the moment. Tingling shot down my legs and up my torso as I stretched, feeling like thousands of needles were piercing me throughout my entire lower half. Yet, it was strangely relieving. I got on my feet, stumbling to the windowsill. I fumbled with the lock, shoving my fingers under the rusty window frame. It yanked open, letting out a long squeak. Shit, shit, shit.

I promptly wiggled through the window, slamming it closed from outside. Mission accomplished.

The air was cold, and I drew in a deep breath to take it in. Maybe I should have slept out here, I'd at least have gotten fresh air.

I jumped over the railing around the porch, sprinting towards Kyle's house. My legs were becoming less and less numb with each step, adding to my current relief. It felt _awesome_. And I absolutely hate moving, I hate exercise, but this was _just_ what I needed.

The sidewalk was dimly lit by our sad excuses for streetlights, but I could sprint to Kyle's house in my sleep. And I do, in fact. Like, in my dreams. That's what I meant.

I was approaching his house, now losing speed and regretting running so fast. My endurance was shit, which I hadn't even thought about. My mind was focused on Kyle. I was running for Kyle.

I stopped myself from slamming into his front door, skidding right before his steps. Smooth, as always. I knocked, shuddering as everything from two weeks ago came back to me.

Kyle opened the door slightly, then swung the thing open after noticing it was me. He clenched his teeth for a few seconds, and then placed his hands on my shoulders.

"Don't. Do that to me. Again. Let alone yourself," he sighed, looking down at the ground.

"I didn't mean to. I, I mean, I wouldn't have done it if I could have controlled myself then. I can't even remember going home that day," I blabbered, resisting urges.

He looked back to my eyes, his arms swinging back to his sides as he stepped back. He cocked his head behind him. "Come in."

I stagger inside, Stan looking troubled and perched on the couch. He stands up when he sees me, smirking.

"Welcome back, man," he chuckled, greeting me with a man-hug. And yes, there was a difference.

It was odd to be welcomed back when you can't even remember leaving, or where and why exactly you were gone. I wasn't even _gone_; I was just sleeping. For two weeks. Maybe I was in a coma.

…Probably not.

"Thanks," I smiled, scratching my scalp. "It's good to… be back. From sleeping."

"You slept for two weeks?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I… think so. I'm not entirely sure, to be honest. I kinda shut down for a little bit," I sighed, cracking my knuckles for the first time in a while. Aww, yeah.

"And you're not worried?" he replied, sitting back on the couch.

"Nah, not really. I've been through worse," I paused, thinking for a single example. "Like, much, much worse."

"You have, man," he sighed, shaking his head.

Kyle followed behind me, pretty delayed. Stan reached out his arms, and he snuggled up beside him. I gotta admit, they were pretty damn cute together.

Kyle sat up straight, Stan's arm still wrapped around his waist. He glanced over at me, clearly noticing how awkward I felt around them. He cleared his throat, scooting a friendly distance away from Stan and giving him the "don't worry, we'll have time to make love later, but for now let's acknowledge Kenny's presence since we made him run all the way over here" look. And he shot Stan that look _all_ the time.

He cleared his throat, putting his hands together. "Kenny, you can sit down, you know," he offered, tapping his hand on the couch cushion next to him.

"O-okay," I accepted, taking a seat next to them. Déjà vu.

There were a few minutes of awkward silence and casual nodding, and I had to stop myself several times from dozing off. You'd think that after lying in bed for two weeks, I wouldn't be tired whatsoever.

Not me.


	6. Mistakes

**a.n./ sorry for the uninteresting, repetitive chapters, I'm trying to stop myself from cutting to the chase like I do with every other story, but it's not working out so well. This one is especially uneventful, but it does set up for what's to come. Stay tuned, I promise it will get much, much better. (:**

My eyes opened nine hours later. I yawned, nudging whatever I was leaning on. I assumed it was the arm of the couch. Though, it was a helluva lot squishier than I remember. And the fabric was softer… and orange.

And Kyle's couch wasn't orange. Who owns an orange couch? Like, I can picture a crazy cat lady owning an orange couch that was ripped to shreds by her psychotic, neglected cats. Which Kyle was the opposite of. Or would that be a sane, dog-loving man?

Either way. It wasn't orange. And I now knew what I had slept on all night.

I was sleeping against _Kyle_. Holy shit.

Though he _probably_ didn't care, or notice, for that matter. Considering he was, like, sleeping _on _Stan. And his face was also close to a few centimeters away from Stan's. Lucky bastard.

I rose from the couch slowly, as to not wake either of them. I wasn't gonna put up with watching them any longer, wasn't going to put up with being completely ignored as they sucked face. I mean, Jesus Christ, I had to stay in bed for two weeks to get Kyle to pay attention to me. Or show up at his door and be all compassionate and make up some excuse about the _guy _I was in love with.

Not this time. Kenny was leaving. And thinking in third-person.

I tiptoed to the door, smirking behind me as Kyle shifted closer to Stan. And he kind of moaned when he did so, which made it twice as endearing. I'd give my life to be in Stan's place.

I sighed, leaving Kyle's house for the third time this month. I guess it was actually the first time, since it was December already. December. It felt like it was January just _yesterday_. Fucking time, it needs to slow down.

I shut the door behind me carefully, meandering outside. Today was one of those days where I felt as if I had no purpose in life. If the only two people in the world who show some kind of care for me ignore me on a daily basis, then I've got no one. Just a lonely soul, wandering around outside and waiting to die.

I'm not even sure who or what to blame. I was just a train wreck, I guess. And beyond repair.

There wasn't even anything that made me _truly _happy. There wasn't anything I could resort to that I could throw myself into and forget about everything, forget about my god-awful family and my pathetic social life. Video games helped, but I'd need to mooch off of Stan for that.

There was always one person. The person whose house I just stumbled out of. The person I slept on last night. The person I confessed my love for without him even knowing. The person who texted me six times while I rotted in bed. The person who…

You get it.

He made me happy, I guess. He made me happy when he wasn't intertwined in some way with Stan.

What could I really lose, though? If I told him how much I fucking loved him, nothing negative would happen. With Stan, yeah. I'd get a good share of negativity from him if he found out. I've never had much of a connection with Stan, and it wouldn't really matter either way.

I paced up and down the sidewalk, debating whether or not to face my parents while planning a way to confess to Kyle again. And I still have the feeling that I've done this too many times before.

I guess it would be best to face them, considering that I wouldn't have a bed to sleep in tonight if I didn't. And I think I left my phone in my room.

I ambled towards my house, forming several comebacks and speeches in my head to counter my mother. Oh, joy. She'll be such a pleasure when her son who locked himself in his room for weeks shows up at her fucking front door.

I took in deep breaths, slamming my fist against the door as I did so. My mother was already shouting, I could hear her shrieking at my father, probably about something mindless that just gave her an excuse to scream. I swear, she always needed something to whine about. You could put her in a room of her favorite things (which I honestly don't know) and she'd still find something to bitch, bitch, and bitch about. The sound of her voice made me want to claw the eyes out of my head.

I knocked again, twice as hard.

"God damn it, I'm coming, I'm coming!" she shrieked, _already _pissed.

She fucking swung the door open, face red, and eyes glaring through me. She reeked of smoke and alcohol, and threw her lit cigarette to the floor as she put it out with her foot. I stood there sheepishly, bracing myself.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You decide to show up _now_? Why are you at the front door?" she wailed, shoving me.

"Yeah, well, I spent the night at Kyle's," I stammered.

"Yeah, and you locked yourself in your fucking room for two weeks. This is how you make up for it? Look at yourself, I didn't fucking raise you this way," she sneered, gesturing to me with her head. I'll admit I was looking pretty battered.

"Mom, you_ did_ 'fucking raise me this way'. The last time you told me you loved me was probably at my last funeral, I mean, for Christ's sake. What do you _expect_?"

She grabbed me by the collar, teeth clenched.

"Don't go there. You do _not _talk to me like that. I try the best I fucking can, and you should be happy I haven't kicked you out for good," she hissed, tearing up. I nodded, biting my lip to stop myself from saying anything.

"Fucking teenagers. You wouldn't do shit like this if you were still, I don't know, eight," she cried, her Southern accent stronger.

"Sorry for growing up," I mumbled.

She turned to the side, looking at me through her peripheral vision. A tear slid down her cheek, and she clutched the bridge of her nose. Her hand was grasping the doorknob, and she slammed the door tight. Overreaction much?

"That's cool, Mom. That's _awesome_. I love sleeping on the lawn," I shouted, banging my fists on the door.

I could still sneak through the window, it was unlocked. I felt like I was living in a repeat, I keep making the same mistakes I always do.

I knocked again, a bit more gentle.

She opened the door, blinking tears away and sniffling. "…What?"

"Can I, just… sleep in my own house? I love you, Mom, and I'm sorry for the shit I put you through," I sighed, guilting my mother into letting me in. The "I love you" excuse works every time. Yeah, I do love her, but I haven't done _shit_.

"Fine. But if you lock yourself in your room, I'm calling the police," she hissed, stepping to the side. Bingo.

"Deal," I smiled, wandering in and bolting to my room. The house was a wreck, but it was _home._

I flopped on my mattress and cradled my phone like a child, smiling with genuine happiness. A rarity in my life.

Home, sweet home.


	7. Soon

**a.n./ it's coming.**

** Apologies for the extreme delay, I had huge doubts that I was ruining this and took an extended break, as well as flew out of the country.**

**all better now.**

** Also, at the time I planned to write this chapter, the song featured in the next chapter was pretty new at the time. Now it isn't as much. Give it a listen sometime. ****I always end up in tears because I'm reminded of this story.**

**THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REVIEWS.**

**Like, seriously. They're pretty much the reason this story hasn't been deleted. They mean so, so much to me, you guys.**

**And now it's my turn to repay you all.**

It was early January by this point, where the effects of winter truly shown through. It was the coldest it had ever been, and I sat in the corner of my room huddled in my parka. Shiver, shiver. Better than overheating, in my opinion.

I rubbed my hands together frantically; my teeth were chattering like a bitch. Why did it have to get so damn cold in Colorado? Why did I even live in Colorado? Couldn't our family have lived in Florida?

Or we could _at least _have a heating system installed. That would be heaven.

I swear to God I could see my breath. In my own room. I could see my _breath_.

Things had been going better in general. I saved up enough cash to buy a radio, cheap as it was. My health issues were improving, somewhat. In terms of family relationships, my mom and I didn't scream back and forth so fucking often. We had little slip-ups here and there, but we pretty much were at a friendly level again.

I was even more stable around Kyle. My love for him grew stronger daily, but so did my control over it. I was pretty certain on how to tell him in the end, and I kept telling myself I was going to do it today. I would. I swear, I would.

I was going to tell him in person, not over the phone, not through a text. I was going to invite him over and tell him up front. I needed to be fucking brave for once, and this would be my only source of joy.

Though, I was pretty sure he wouldn't appreciate getting invited to the freezer that is my room. But it was the best that I could manage, and that was enough, right? It's the thought that counts.

And he had to know. He had to know that the person I ranted about and confessed my dying love for was _him. _If he didn't already, of course. Which I really, really hoped he didn't, because then the purpose of this embarrassing confession would pretty much vanish.

…What if he did?

It would be like, "hey, Kyle, I love you with every inch of my body" and his response is like, "yeah, I knew that already"? That would suck _ass._ I _want_ it to go somewhere along the lines of "hey, Kyle, I love you with every inch of my body" and he'd say, "I do too, I'm leaving Stan and living with you for eternity. I'm gonna strip down in celebration, now make out with me!".

… Yeah, wishful thinking, Kenny.

But he'd be cool about it, at least. I know him.

Worst part was, not only had I gotten more obsessed with Kyle, so had Stan. They were_ way_ too close nowadays, which meant Kyle was never, ever alone. When they weren't sucking face, they were cuddling, or seeing a movie, or doing other things I didn't want to torture myself by imagining.

Which also meant I needed to plan things very, very carefully.

I stood up with an abrupt shiver, cracking my knuckles before searching for my cell phone. Hell, it was probably frozen solid by now. I know_ I_ almost was.

I lifted my mattress off of the carpet, as my phone tended to slide between the space between it and the wall. No sign of the phone. I checked my jacket pockets; pant pockets, windowsill- there it was.

I flipped it open, puffing hot air on the cold surface to warm it up. The screen fogged up and I rubbed it away with my jacket sleeve. I fiddled with the buttons until I brought up my contacts list, inhaling deep before selecting "Kyle" on the list. I bit my lip as the dial tone slowly droned in my ear. Two times. Three times. Four times.

"Hey, this is Kyle's phone, leave a message and I'll get back to you. Thanks!" I mouthed along with Kyle's programmed recording, as I had it memorized by now. I sighed in disappointment, clearing my throat for the beep.

Beep.

"Kyle… hey. It's Kenny. Uhm, it'd be great if you could, uh, call me back. It's, er… urgent, I guess. I'm not bleeding or anything, though, so it isn't really, uh, urgent. Call me back, bye," I stumbled, trying to be as convincing as possible. I flipped the phone closed, sighing again. So much for that, then.

And then my phone rang. I already knew it was Kyle, considering I set his personal ringtone to some cheesy love song-sounding one, which always made me jump. I flipped it open once again, gasping with excitement.

"Kyle?" I squealed, a bit too enthusiastic.

"Yeah, hey. What's wrong?" he asked, sounding preoccupied with something.

"Oh, uhm. Nothing. I kind of over-exaggerated in the message I left you so you'd pick up right away," I confessed, pacing around the room. "But it's still kind of important."

"Uh, alrighty. What _is_ wrong, then?" he asked once more, sounding a bit more involved.

"Well. It's one of those things that I, er, need to tell you in person, okay? It's an issue I, um, need to work out. It's been bothering me for a few months," I explained. "It involves you."

"Mmm, okay," was all that he said.

"Is… is Stan there?" I asked, worried.

"Yeah," he chuckled softly, and I could picture him gazing all wide-eyed and loving at Stan. "But, uh, if you need me that bad, I'm here. I can head over if you don't want to run through the snow."

Kyle had recently gotten his driver's license, and was driving _everywhere _he possibly could. Which was great, because in a case like this I didn't have to freeze my ass off just to watch Stan and Kyle's make-out session and then give up on attempting to spill anything to Kyle. He could drive here. Alone.

"_Thaaat _would be amazing," I beamed, grinning from ear to ear.

"Okay then… I'll be over in…" he paused, probably looking at a clock. "Three hours. Around 9:30."

"P-perfect. Thanks," I replied, trying to stay as mellow as possible.

"_Staaan…_" I heard him giggle, and then shuffling. "Alright then. Be there soon."

"Fantastic. Later," I concluded, still containing my excitement.

"Bye," he ended, hanging up.

"I FUCKING LOVE YOU, KYLE BROFLOVSKI," I screamed at the dial tone, letting everything out.

"…What was that, Kenny?" my mother yelled from across the house (which wasn't very far).

"Um, _nothing, Mom_!" I shouted, laughing hysterically afterwards. I just invited Kyle over. Holy shit. A year or two ago, that would be no big fucking deal, but _dude_.

I put my cell phone back on the windowsill, doing a belly flop onto my mattress. Which I regretted.

"…Owww. _Fuck_," I moaned, sitting up and clutching my stomach. I needed to get into shape.

I distracted myself from the pain by picturing Kyle in my room. With no Stan around his arm. Me confessing everything that I've been attempting to hide from him. It'd be just like one of the hundreds of dreams I've been having… but actually _real_.

I sighed dreamily, similar to a lovestruck teenage girl, rolling back and forth on my mattress. Soon, Kyle would know. Soon.


	8. Breakneck Speed

**a.n./** **Ahaha… if you noticed, I screwed up the last author's note a bit. **_**This**_** is the chapter with the song (that was new at the time, blah blah) in it. This whole thing was actually going to be named after that song, which I quickly decided against doing.**

**I do regret quoting a song at all in this, but I found it slightly helped capture the emotions and such. There are a **_**ton**_** of other songs that this whole thing was inspired by, but this was the one that really motivated me and it describes the plot a tiny bit.**

**And if you want to time it just right, look it up on YouTube.  
Breakneck Speed by Tokyo Police Club.**

**Okay, enough of me. More Kenny. **

**And I think you know what's coming soon.**

**Considering I revealed it already within the first few sentences of the first chapter.**

**If I can actually pull these last few chapters off correctly, get your tissues ready, man.  
I hope I don't end up disappointing you, because the atmosphere of the story does change pretty significantly.  
I also wish I had made this chapter much longer than it is. **

**And again, you know how much your reviews excite me.**

I had been continuously watching the clock ever since he had hung up the phone call. Every single second that went by. Every centimeter of movement from the second hand. I'd been staring in anticipation for nearly three long hours now. It's insane how much fucking slower time goes when you _want_ it to speed up. … And vice versa.

More importantly, it was already 9:18PM by now. Which, if Kyle was actually serious about arriving exactly at 9:30 like he had claimed, meant I only had to endure _twelve _more minutes of this torture.

It was_ so_ fucking excruciating, preparing to admit every single thing to the person who could quite possibly be the love of your life, and you have to fucking wait twelve more minutes. That was seven hundred and twenty seconds. _Seven hundred and twenty seconds._ Probably less by now, but, _still._

He probably won't even show up_ exactly_ on time. Which could also mean an additional hundred seconds, maybe more. Depends how long Stan keeps him chained to the couch or bed or wherever they were. He'd better give him a break and let him out of the fucking house for once. He was probably suffocating on Stan's face at this very moment.

I banged my head against the wall in frustration, counting down from seven hundred and twenty. Seven hundred and nineteen. I really, really hate numbers.

Why did I always have to make shit _worse_? Every single thing I did. I don't think there's one thing I've done correctly in my excuse for a life, other than admitting all this crush shit to Kyle's face. Six hundred and ninety-nine.

Mentally beating myself up wouldn't help much, either.

What could I distract myself with? My room was pretty much bare except for a mattress, an old, beat-up clock, this weird side-table thing I found abandoned by some trash bins a while back (it's in decent condition, shut up), an open window, and… _my radio_. Why haven't I thought of that already? Six hundred and sixty-six. The only number I didn't completely hate, for obvious reasons.

Ever since I saved up to afford the cheapest radio I could get my hands on, I hadn't even tested it out. Kyle had kept my mind way too preoccupied to just kick back and listen to music.

I separated my head apart from the wall, stretching out my arms above my head with a yawn. Well, great, not only was I anxious and frustrated, I was tired. And whining to myself, as always. Six hundred and forty-seven. I hummed mindlessly, stumbling towards my radio. My precious radio.

I searched the labels on the buttons, tapping the power on. And I was greeted with an obnoxious blast of static. Six hundred and twenty. I hit the FM button, tuning through the stations until I found one suitable. There was this one commercial-free station with amazing music that Stan always played in our middle school years, and I was totally blanking at the moment.

How could I possibly forget this? It began with a ninety, I think… Ninety… Oh, come on, Kenny. Ninety-one? I fiddled with the tuner, a various mix of static, people talking, and music accompanying it. I scrolled through most of the stations until I reached the beginning of the nineties.

Ninety-one point four? It was worth a shot.

…_Denver Broncos winning their fifth-_

Sports shit. No, no, no. Ninety-three point one?

… _on sale now! You can't get a bargain like this-_

Ugh, commercials. No. Come on, this number used to be part of my _soul_. I had to think about middle school memories…

Ninety… _five_. Ninety-five sounded right. …Point _what,_ though? I scrolled through the nineties a teeny bit until I eventually came to ninety-five point one.

…_insurance cover that? We don't think so. State Farm-_

No. Ninety-five point six.

…_get them now, only prices you can find at Wal-Mart-_

_No_. …What about point seven? 95.7 felt like it clicked something somewhere in my brain.

I caught the tail end of a pretty decent song, and flopped (not on my stomach) back onto my mattress with another drawn-out sigh. What number was I on, again? No. Focus on the music, now. I took a deep breath.

"_And that was The Pixies. Here's the newest single from Tokyo Police Club, Breakneck Speed." _the woman on the radio announced, with a tinge of fake enthusiasm. I listened attentively as fast guitar picking abruptly chimed in.

_Breakneck speed, tying up your hands 'cause you're landing back on your feet…_

I sat up, bending over to turn up the volume.

_Vowel change; I remember when our voices used to sound the same, now we just translate…_

'_Cause I'm still amazed you made it out alive after what you did…_

I bit my lip, searching the room for my clock. It was 9:30, more than halfway until 9:31. What if he didn't show up at all and was just amusing me?

'_Cause it's good to be back, good to be back, good to be back…_

He wouldn't do that. Not the Kyle that I know, anyhow. He's stuck to every promise he's ever made, why not just stop by my house? …So that I can tell him I'm gay for him?

_Super fun, at the movies, drunk and young… double knots that came undone; but the big bad years are gone…_

_Yeah, the big bad years are done and gone away…_

God, I loved this song. It uncannily described my life, but that's usually how I felt about most of the songs I heard.

My musical trance was instantly broken by an ear-piercing screech. I abruptly clutched my head, my heart racing. I completely tuned out the music that I was so involved in a second ago. What the _fuck_ was that? It sounded almost like a car-

_Crash._ The sound of metal colliding with metal rang down the street and into my ears, making me grind my teeth. Holy _shit_. No. No, no, _no._ It couldn't be. It could _not_ fucking be him.

I sprung off of my mattress and flung my door open, sprinting out of the house as fast as my legs could possibly carry me. My mother looked up from her beer, saying something I couldn't make out. Stop worrying, Kenny. Car accidents happen all the time. And this one happened to be at the time that Kyle said he'd come. It was possible. It was fucking possible.

I ran down the asphalt street, tripping on the curb and catching myself mid-run. I could make out a two totaled cars and some drunkard stumbling about aimlessly. I swallowed, forcing back tears of worry. It was probably just some drunk guy crashing into a parked car. That's _all_ it was.

I kept running and panting and swallowing, biting down on my bottom lip.

"Please, _please, no_," I whimpered, my steps slowing as I came closer.

A silver Nissan Altima was completely crushed, some kind of black Hummer wedged in the back of it.

"_N-no…_" I cried out, trying to remember what color and model that Kyle's car was. …It could be a totally different guy.

I pulled out my cell phone from my jacket pocket, frantically calling Stan.

"Hello?" he answered.

"_S-stan._ W-what kind of car… does Kyle drive?" I asked softly, my voice trembling. I was shaking.

"Oh, silver Nissan Altima. Why? Can't find him?"

I covered my mouth.

"K-kyle-" was all that my throat could push out, silently mouthing the rest of the sentence.

"…What's wrong?" he asked, his level of concern rising.

"K-kyle was…" I tried again, swallowing back tears. I could hear my fucking heartbeat.

"What?" he repeated.

"_KYLE WAS IN A CAR ACCIDENT_," I screamed with everything left in my body, vocal cords feeling as if they were bleeding.

There was no reply. Only a drawn-out dial tone.

I let go of my cell phone, my pride and joy, and it hit the asphalt with a shatter. Zero.


	9. Hysteric

**a/n: Six months later, **_**hello.  
**_**I was so afraid that I would ruin this that I didn't ever finish the drafts I had for this chapter, but now I'm finally closing this up. Ending at ten chapters.  
****With the massive amount of time that has passed, I'm also scared my writing style might have changed, so bear with me if these last chapters seem a little bit off.**

**Kyle's death in general is just confusing.  
****That's all, sorry to those that I kept waiting.**

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* * *

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I think this was where we started, right? The hospital? Stan curled up and trembling on the cold, dusty hospital floor? Yeah. Here I was.

Stan called the paramedics before he even got to my street. They showed up, got Kyle on the stretcher. Cops showed up, got the drunken bastard arrested. Stan showed up, went spiraling down into an emotional oblivion. While this shit takes place, I stand shocked at the curb, beside the shattered remnants of my darling cell phone. Trying to take in the whole situation, among blaring sounds of sirens and repetitive lights in my eyes.

While maybe I wasn't the guy who got wasted, decided to take a drive around town, and rammed Kyle's silver Nissan Altima smack into a tree, I can't help but feel like this was entirely my fault. Which it was. If I hadn't asked the kid to drive to my house so I could confess my undying love for him, he'd be safe at home with his loving boyfriend who was currently rocking himself back and forth and chanting.

So you could imagine how shitty I felt about this whole thing.

I cleared my throat, getting off of the chair and crouching to Stan's uncomfortable level. I had to do something; the kid was losing his fucking mind.

"Stan," I consoled, cautiously resting a hand on his shaking shoulder. He jerked away, broken from his trance and now emotionlessly staring at me. "Are... are you okay?"

His face began to show some trace of emotion. He furrowed his brow, visibly clenching his fists and trembling. "Y-yeah, yeah, Kenny, I'm real _fucking_ okay."

I bit my bottom lip, realizing that that was a dumb thing to ask him. What else could I say to the kid? Really? "Sorry?" I guess I actually was to blame for this. "Dude, I…"

"J-just _STOP IT_!" he barked back, his head facing away from me. "You don't fucking understand the shit I'm going through right now."

"Uhm, I exist too? Kyle was also a close, lifetime friend of mine? Hi there?" I stand up and wave my hand at him sarcastically, before quickly flopping back into the twice as uncomfortable chair. The atmosphere in here was tense and beyond. A weeping woman sat across the room on the last chair of the row, rubbing her gushing eyes with her sweater sleeve. A man sitting solemnly a few seats down. Stan glaring at me with teeth and fists clenched from where he was settled on the floor. Approaching me... Oh, _shit_.

He steadies himself and storms over to me, his hands slamming against my scrawny chest and causing my back and head to slam painfully against the wall. I really should know better.

"S-shut the _fuck_ up. Ky wasn't just a 'close, lifetime friend of mine', he was the _love of my life_, and _y-you_ had to send him away from me to stop over at your stupid fucking house and… and now he's _DEAD! _HE'S GONE! _He_…" Stan starts to scream in my face, but his head falls defeated onto my shoulder as he lets himself cry again. I gulp. I wasn't even going to jump to conclusions, but that made me feel _so_ much better.

Stan howls against the fabric of my t-shirt, and his tears are soaking right through it. I'd hardly seen this guy cry, so I start to pat his back gently while staring at the wall in total shock. Oh well, I'd rather have his head on my shoulder than his fist in my face.

His hands grab and squeeze at my shoulders, and he starts to bawl _twice_ as hard. My comforting patting turns into stroking and then spirals into just plain awkward. I look away from the man turning his gaze to us, Stan now practically sitting on my lap. At least the room was pretty empty at this time.

"Why… _why…_" he whimpers like a puppy against me, shoving his wet face into the crook of my neck. I kept quiet, fake comfort wasn't what Stan needed. Something like "it's going to be okay" would just push him further off of the edge he was on, because it very clearly was not going to be okay. I feel weird with a guy this close to me, let alone Stan, I can't even remember the last time someone clung to me like this. Or even cried on me. That was a first.

A few minutes more speed by, Stan gets further and further past my comfort zone, when finally a doctor emerges from the hallway. My head shoots up, and I nudge my shoulder against the side of Stan's face and he lifts it up. We both look at the man in uniform, back to each other, back at the guy, and Stan is still on my lap like I'm fucking Santa Claus. He's also broader and taller compared to my starving-to-death figure, which would add to the already awkward position. Eurgh.

"Stan, off for a sec…" I warn, hoping that the doctor was here about Kyle. And with good news. I hope.

Stan blinks and lets go of me, awkwardly sliding off of my lap and steadying himself. I do the same, and I walk towards the doctor now in the room, Stan sulking behind me.

"Are you two here for Kyle Broflovski?" the guy asks, and I slowly nod.

"Y-yes, sir," I utter, nervously cracking my knuckles. The doctor pulls out a clipboard, thumbing through the few pages.

"Follow me," he tells us, starting to walk back into the hallway. I follow behind, turning my head to Stan who was glaring at the hospital floor like it had offended him. He stops giving the floor the death stare when he hears my footsteps and starts to catch up to me. He swallows hard, I can tell the poor guy is trying with every force in his body to not shed a tear. After drenching me with them. Stan is soon right beside me, and as the doctor grabs the handle to Kyle's room, Stan grabs my hand and squeezes.

I squeeze back and smile comfortingly. The doctor turns to us briefly.

"I should warn you, he is in critical condition," the doctor states solemnly, hesitating as he opens Kyle's door.

When I walked in, I forgot to breathe. Kyle's biggest gashes were already bandaged, but there were still massive sections of his bloodied flesh peeking through the gauze. A broken leg hung and wrapped in a cast. His expression was peaceful, too fucking peaceful for someone whose car was just rammed against a tree. His auburn curls were caked with blood, in a mess around his scratched face. I heard Stan choke.

I start to mindlessly count, just like when I was anticipating his arrival not too long ago.

"He's alive, though unconscious," the doctor announces. "But we don't know for how long. It's a miracle he's still breathing."

Nine seconds, ten.

Stan starts to cry again, running to Kyle's side and pawing at him through tears, talking to him quickly and inaudibly. I stand frozen from across the room, at the boy I would never get to confess to. At the boy who I had unintentionally killed. At the boy I loved.

Twenty seconds.

Stan's hands meander gently across Kyle's wounded face, through his hair. His other hand finds its way into Kyle's own, but I can tell he's still holding back. Acting like he's petting a kitten or something that isn't his boyfriend. One of those heart monitor machines is standing by his side, claiming he's still living and breathing. I can't even see his chest rise and fall.

Fifty seconds.

His skin is deadly pale, like all the life was sucked out of it. Like if you touched it, it would crumble and dissolve into ashes or dust or something. Delicate, that was the word. I think. I've never been good with words, that was what Kyle was for. One minute and four seconds.

I push myself to take a step away from the wall, walking towards Kyle in his last moments. I kneel on the floor beside the hospital bed, across from Stan who was fucking gushing with tears. I can hear his long string of words clearer now, but I still can't grasp every word. One minute and twenty-one seconds.

Stan ends his hysteric chanting for a moment, and I guess I took that as I sign to start talking. I still felt like this wasn't real. Like I wasn't really here. Like a dream. A nightmare.

"Hey," I whisper mindlessly, as if he was sitting beside me healthy and eyes wide open. Like I was starting a conversation. Peachy, freckled skin and marmalade hair…

Stan looks at me like I'm crazy, which is funny because, you know, he's acting like the mental one right now. Chanting and hyperventilating and rocking back and forth earlier and slamming me against the chair and crying in my lap. You get it.

One minute and forty-six seconds.

I'm staring at Kyle, I'm just watching him lying bloody and peaceful and watching Stan's hand graze across his face. The doctor is still in the room, watching the numbers and meters on all the machines Kyle's plugged into. The steady beeping of the heart monitor, getting faster and faster. I look up, the green spikes getting sharper and sharper, the beeps more and more consistent.

One minute and fifty-eight seconds.

I look back to the doctor, who has his eyebrows raised at the increasing pace. He looks down at Kyle, and my eyes follow. I can see Kyle's chest start to visibly rise and fall with his breathing, and I get my hopes up. He's waking up. Maybe everything will be okay. Maybe Kyle will open his eyes, he'll sit up and wrap his arms around us and we'll stay with him every night until his wounds are healed and I'll tell him everything I've been keeping from him.

Two minutes and five seconds.

Kyle's eyes jerk open. They're open, they're wide, but most importantly open, and almost angelically shimmering under the bright hospital light. Kyle's eyes are wide fucking open, emerald irises and heavily bloodshot, and staring into my own eyes. I start to gasp, to scream, to let anything leave my throat when he chokes. He fucking chokes. He gags, gasps for air and beneath his panicked inhaling I can hear a tinge of his voice.

Two minutes and eleven seconds.

"_Ky!_" Stan shrieks like a girl, clutching Kyle's bandaged arm and desperately leaning against him.

Two minutes and twelve seconds…

Kyle gives up, the choking and gagging ends and his gorgeous eyes roll back. The green line of light that was once spiking goes flat, a totally straight line, and a long, drawn-out beep rings through the air. Stan's hopeful wails become agonizing, he pulls his head away from Kyle and clutches his own head. It's all too fast, it's too fucking much for me to handle. I keep trying to wipe the image of Kyle's lifeless eyes from my mind as I get up, I start to stand up and walk out of the room and leave them behind.

The doctor looks at me with concern, but his pitiful "I'm sorry" goes right the fuck through me. I swing open the door, and I start to run. I run down the hallway of the hospital, through the waiting room, into the lobby and out the door. It's cold outside, it's so damn cold, there's snowflakes drifting slowly through the air and getting caught in my hair as I run across the road, tripping on the curb and skidding on my face against the damp sidewalk. Then I let it all out. I cry.

This is all my fault.


End file.
